The Mistress
The theater had begun.
Miles away, in a darkened apartment filled with the hum of servers and the glow of six different monitors, Sophie was playing her part in the symphony of our deception.
“The feed is live,” she whispered into her headset, her fingers dancing across the keys.
By the time the sun hit the horizon, the press was already saturated with the “exclusive” leak. “VICTORIA SY’S FINAL BREAKDOWN,” the headlines screamed. Sophie had carefully leaked a series of frantic, nonsensical emails and a voice recording of me “hallucinating” in the back of a car—a recording we had spent hours perfecting in the studio.